A Terrible Convenience
by darthsydious
Summary: Sherlock and Molly quietly get married. His parents approve, but what about Mycroft? Victorian!lock, sherlolly, mythea


"I don't care what my wife does in her spare time so long as it isn't wasted on dull fripperies," Sherlock flourished the bow of his violin, glaring at the embroidery hoop in his sister in-law's hands.

"I happen to _like_ embroidery," Anthea said. "Mostly to frustrate you, but it helps me think, much like your tenacious sawing on your violin."

"I do not 'saw' it."

"If you say so," Anthea smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "So what does your wife do then?" Sherlock turned to face her, chest puffed out, positively reeking of pride.

"She's a pathologist."

If he was hoping to shock Anthea, he was sadly mistaken. She merely quirked an eyebrow at him as she smothered a grin.

"Mycroft said she worked in a hospital. Of course knowing you I should have realized she'd never be employed as anything so normal as a nurse."

Sherlock Holmes had married over the summer, honeymooned in Paris, and returned by early fall. A marriage of convenience, in the sense that the woman was a good friend of his (that was a hell of a convenience), and it put an end to his mother's endless prattling, attempted set-ups and poorly constructed chance-meetings. Anthea was eager to meet the woman who had captured her brother in-law's heart (he claimed it was nothing of the kind, but she knew better).

 **Three Months Earlier**

After a particularly sour society matron shoved her daughter into his arms, Sherlock had quite enough, fleeing to the relative safety of St. Bart's Hospital where there would surely be no eligible ladies of society tittering over his fortune and odd behaviors, no mothers nagging him about grandchildren or questioning his choice of employment. In the basement of the hospital, he found Dr. Molly Hooper at work, a woman of exceptional caliber who had assisted him on countless occasions. She was not in the least bit squeamish and had always provided a listening ear. Still fuming from the day's events, he shared all while she cut into a portly judge (who had died of seemingly natural causes). Sherlock paced and railed, complaining that he would never be free of his mother's endless parade of 'Mycroft-approved' eligible women.

"Why not simply _get_ married?" Molly suggested. Breathless, a few curls coming loose from her hairpins, she bore down and the ribcage cracked under her weight. She gave a grunt of relief, that was one job done. Sherlock paused, allowing himself to admire her. Molly Hooper's cheeks were rosy, despite the coolness of the morgue. Her hands were deft and capable, slicing away fatty tissues and arteries to remove a rather purple and bulbous heart from the chest cavity of the former judge. Molly Hooper might not have been the pale, lithe-limbed, elegant ladies of high society, but she was particularly pretty in her own right, to borrow a phrase from Detective Lestrade 'plump and pleasing' seemed to fit. Her eyes (currently fixed on the organ in her hands) were attractive and sharp. Often Sherlock scoffed at the small-minded men who turned their noses up at educated women. They dismissed such a lovely creature simply because she'd been to school. What a shame.

Realizing he had not answered her, he sat up.

"What good would that possibly do?" He asked. She looked up from turning the heart over in her hand, examining it.

"It'd shut your mother up, for starters. Will you be needing this?"

"Please." Nodding, she set it in a bowl, aside, and covered it with a clean cloth before returning to the corpse. He approached the opposite side of the table, watching her work for a time, thoughtful on what she's said. "Who would I marry?" He asked finally. He scoffed before she could even answer. "Oh it's ridiculous! I couldn't put on such a pretense. The woman would be miserable, not that it would matter to me, but I'd rather not have a bitter soul in my house, flopping about and filling Baker Street with her quilling and lace folderol. She'd only be in the way, using the parlor for tea and company when it should be filled with case files and evidence and relatives of murder victims! She'd probably get rid of Billy, whoever she would be. She wouldn't be my equal, and that above all I could not tolerate. I shouldn't demand anything less if I'm to be saddled for life."

"I quite agree," Molly nodded. "Quite the same as my problem. No one wants a wife who's got a better education than they do, or one who doesn't swoon at the sight of blood, or, for that matter, one who cuts up dead bodies for a living."

"Or one who assists Scotland Yard and the World's Only Consulting Detective on a weekly basis," Sherlock added with a smirk. There was some selfish gladness deep down in him that he could appreciate Molly Hooper in a way so few men could.

"What about that woman, Irene Adler?" Molly asked. "You were once keen on her for a time."

"I think not," Sherlock said with a cough. "I think she and I would end up killing each other." He sighed, taking a seat by the far counter. "If there was any woman that I would marry, it would be you, Doctor Hooper." The scalpel fell from her hand, hitting the stone with a 'clang'.

"Me?! Good heavens, why do you want me?"

"You're clever," Sherlock answered. "You've a mind of your own and you use it, a feat few people today have yet to master. I admire you a great deal, not only for attending a University despite opposition, but also for being top of your class, your caliber in your chosen field is unmatched, your taste in music is pleasing, clothing budget modest, and you are pretty. As far as I know you don't embroidery. I am unfamiliar with your reading habits, I imagine you don't pour over 'Grey's Anatomy' nightly." Roses bloomed in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled at him as she smiled.

"Not every night. I'm afraid I've got a bad habit of picking up penny dreadfuls."

It took some time to convince her he was in earnest. After a month of courting (she insisted, and to prevent rumor of scandal, he agreed). Naturally, introductions to the parents had to be made, at least on his side (as the remaining members of her family were deceased). After a quiet ceremony (only John and Mary Watson attended as witnesses) he took her away to Paris. With each passing day, Sherlock praised himself on his choice of bride.

 **Present Day**

"Sherlock," he blinked, suddenly remembering that Anthea was talking to him. "Are you listening?"

"No," he shrugged apologetically and turned to face her. "What did you say?"

"I asked if I should ring for tea?"

"Don't bother, Molly likes to help Mrs. Hudson set it up." Still picking at her embroidery, Anthea looked up at him.

"You know Mycroft was rather upset you didn't invite us when you brought her to meet your parents." He looked at her.

"You mean you're upset."

"A little," she shrugged. "But I said what I meant before. Mycroft wanted to meet her with the family. I suspect we weren't invited as you didn't want to overwhelm her with so many Holmes' in one sitting."

"I didn't want Mycroft to spoil everything as he so often does. No one in his eyes will measure up to you, and heaven help Molly if he saw a single flaw in her. He'd pull her apart. The longer I can prolong their meeting so much the better." Anthea cleared her throat, and Sherlock frowned. "Well?"

"Well...you may as well know he's already met her."

"What?! When?"

"He stepped into Bart's and invited her to tea. Did she not say?" Sherlock paused, thinking carefully. He'd been busy yesterday sorting through case files. He must not have heard her. Anthea looked at her fob watch, checking the time.

"Well, what does my big brother say about her then?" He asked

"I said she was quite charming." Sherlock and Anthea turned to see Mycroft and Molly in the doorway. Molly, divested of hat and gloves went to her husband, pressing her cheek, and he responded in kind. "Did she not say?" Mycroft asked.

"I did not, I hate bragging," Molly answered.

"It's hardly bragging." Mycroft snorted.

"When a Holmes gives his approval, to repeat it would be bragging," Molly said. Sherlock glanced between his wife and sister in-law and stepped back, gesturing between the two of them:

"Molly, this is my sister in-law, Lady Anthea Holmes, 'Thea, this is Molly, my wife." They shook hands, Molly speaking first,

"I'm so glad to meet you!"

"And you as well," Anthea smiled in return. "I was about to find Mrs. Hudson, shall we leave them to it?"

"Oh yes," Molly led the way. "And you must promise to call me by my first name, we're family now."

"Only if you return the favor-" Anthea replied. The parlor door swung shut behind them cutting off whatever else Anthea was saying.

"So," Sherlock bounced on his heels, hands in his pockets. "Come on, out with it, what's wrong with her?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing!" Sherlock scoffed. He shook his head in disbelief. "Mycroft you find something wrong with everything and everyone, including, I might add, your own wife!"

"No one is perfect," Mycroft shrugged. "Doctor Hooper," he cleared his throat. " _Holmes,_ is quite suitable for you. I should be surprised I never thought of her sooner for you." Sherlock stared at his brother, quite shocked. He had expected a Mycroft to quietly demand an annulment, ship Molly off to some quiet village hospital in the north and pack Sherlock off to Somaliland. Instead he seemed perfectly content with his choice of bride. "What's the matter, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, amused by his brother's expression. "Were you hoping for my disapproval? I'm afraid your plan backfired, if that were the case, you'll have to live with the choice you made. Mother won't tolerate divorce in the family." Sherlock stared at his brother and then slowly he began to smile.

"What did Molly tell you?" Mycroft blinked, expression blank.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You've disapproved of her station from the beginning, why the sudden change of heart?"

"I never said I disapproved, good God, you make me sound medieval," Mycroft snorted. "I said her skills were untested in an operating theater therefore she should not be trusted with any living patient."

"She threatened you, didn't she?" Sherlock guessed. "She did!" Mycroft shifted uneasily, tugging at the cuffs of his jacket.

"She did nothing of the kind, she merely...explained her feelings for you and what exactly what going on between you two, how you came to marry and so on."

"Why did she have to explain it?" Sherlock asked.

"I may have suggested her intention to marry you was merely to advance her social standing."

"She absolutely pulled a knife on you," declared the consulting detective who collapsed in his chair, giggling and grinning from ear-to-ear.

"Yes, well, I suppose she had a right to be offended."

"The way you probably posed the question, she most definitely did," Sherlock answered. "I hope you've learned your lesson: Molly is not to be bullied or interrogated." Mycroft nodded, and then stooped to pick up the overturned chess table and box of pieces. He set it up between them and Sherlock leaned forward, separating the men.

By the time the women returned to the parlor with tea, the brothers were well immersed in their game. Molly and Anthea were already fast friends and all-too-pleased to leave them to it. Taking up the sofa, they fell into quiet conversation, low enough their husbands could not hear them happily discussing their honeymoons and all the best places to visit. Sherlock looked up from the board at the women, crooking a small, nervous smile at Molly as she glanced his way.

"You do approve of her though?" He asked his brother quietly, turning back to the board. Mycroft looked up.

"Does my opinion matter so much all of a sudden? You'd have married her regardless."

"Hmm, yes, but you see she's quite determined to like you, she's never had a brother before, and as it looks like she an Anthea are to be bosom friends, one can assume you will be seeing a good deal of both of us in the future."

"Well..." Mycroft turned his attention to the board again. "I suppose you'll find out soon enough from her, but I told her yesterday that I am certain she is perfectly suited to the task of being your wife and securing your happiness." Sherlock shifted his pawn, capturing Mycroft's queen piece.

"Checkmate."

"That doesn't mean I like her," the elder Holmes insisted.

"Oh no, of course not," Sherlock said, clearly disbelieving. "You dislike Molly as your sister," he picked up the chess piece, tossing it in the air. "As much as I hate Anthea as mine."

"Humph."

"It's convenient, having the other's approval, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, resetting the board. Arms folded over his chest, Mycroft looked around the room to the women deep in conversation, to his brother amiably setting up the board for another match.

"Terribly." He agreed.


End file.
